A Journey Home
by Whisper Mistress
Summary: What if Sansa had decided to leave with the Hound? The two of them on foot, forging their way north. Sansa begins to heal and feelings begin to grow. Mentions of violence, some mature themes and language. Please Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1

A Journey Home

Sansa opened her eyes. The leaves above her were green, bright, edged with the gold of the rising sun and stirring in a gentle breeze. Birds were singing.

I'm home, she thought. I'm home and I've just woken up from a nap in the Godswood. In a moment Mother will call me and I'll go inside and eat. Everything is as it always was.

She rolled over and looked over at the lump of wool and steel on the other side of the clearing. That's Robb, he's here with me and he's napping too, he'll get up soon and we'll walk into Winterfell together.

A leaf fell on Sansa's cheek. She didn't flinch, she didn't want to move and break the spell of the words she told herself each morning. Maybe this time I'll tell it to myself and it will be true, she thought.

The Hound never stirs in his sleep, she thought. He had slept every night since their escape from King's landing the same way; curled in a low mound of his cloak and his armor, as firm a grip on his sword when he woke up as when he had dropped to the ground.

Sansa sat up and looked around. The forest they had traveled through the night before had given way to glades and beyond them was a field, the tops of the grass showing golden in the morning light. It was colder up here than down near King's Landing, but not really cold, more like a fresh spring morning. The dew that had settled earlier was turning her cloak into a beautiful but chilly rag.

I could get up and run, Sansa thought. I could run across that field into the forest beyond. And what would I run to? I have no idea what is out there, and I'm afraid.

In the days since they had escaped from the fiery horror at King's Landing, Sansa had learned many new things to fear. She had learned to fear the forests at night, filled with noises that made her so panicky it was hard to stumble behind the Hound as he pushed through the trees. She had learned to fear the bite of sharp rocks on her bare ankles, ill protected by the light slippers she had on her feet when the Hound had pulled her out of her chambers and down the castle steps. She had learned to fear the hunger that gnawed into her body more and more every day. But now at least she had learned to no longer fear the Hound.

In King's landing she had never seen him kill anyone besides the men who had attacked her that terrible day in the procession. But here, now, she saw him kill every day, or nearly. The lands around Kings Landing were filled with farmers, soldiers and refugees. When he could, the Hound led them around any people they encountered, but so often they would chance upon some ill fated man who would draw his sword or raise his pitchfork as the Hound strode towards him, and his mouth would form an "O" of surprise as the Hound's sword sliced through him. The first time she saw him cutting the fingers off a body to get at the gold rings, Sansa had retched and sobbed into the dirt. Now when the Hound rifled through bodies, she watched silently, waiting for him to find a bag of bread, or perhaps a couple of onions.

There was a crash in the woods behind them and the Hound was up instantly, hunched over and staring into the thickets, his sword loose in its scabbard. Sansa whirled and gasped, and out of the leaves trotted a young boar. Sansa laughed before she could stop it, and the pig stopped and looked at them. He snuffled and began to run the other way, but instantly the Hound's knife was quivering through his belly. The pig lurched and fell over with a grunt.

"If you've got to laugh at something, get it out now, little bird," said the Hound. "You'd find precious little to laugh at if you'd scared away your breakfast." He looked at her, his hair falling over his scarred pink face, breathing heavily. After a moment he got up and strode to the boar, pulled his sword out of it and kneeled awkwardly beside it. Sansa was still clutching her robe as he began cutting.

"I'm sorry, ser" she said, tripping over the words. "I didn't mean to laugh. It just looked so funny standing there, like it… like it was surprised."

"Aye, I reckon it was surprised," he said as he began to saw the pig up its belly. "No one ever expects to die. But they do all the same." He grunted as he broke its ribs open to pull out the heart. His voice was gruff and raw.

Sansa blinked, and looked at him. She watched his hands as he butchered the pig and gathered wood for a fire. I have only ever seen him in armor, she thought. He's always got it on, even when he sleeps.

"How many men have you killed?" She had never asked him that before.

"Men?" he said, slashing through the body with his dagger. "Many. More than I can count. I've killed women too. And babies. I've killed some babies." He looked at her again. "And now I've killed a pig. Does that offend you, little bird? Or will you be happy to eat the thing I've killed?" His voice was low and rough as a saw. "Now come here little bird, and start this fire."

Sansa rose with a little stumble and went to the pile of kindling the Hound had gathered. All this journey they had been hungry because the Hound refused to start any fires and Sansa had never done it before. Her knuckles were red and scabbed from hitting the flint and the steel dagger together badly.

She bowed her head and began to hack the blade. "I only meant…that you must have seen that look on many men's faces. You must have watched a lot of people die."

"I don't wait around to watch the life drain away from them, little bird. When you kill someone, they're dead. You can't pray to the seven for every one. That's for someone else to do. My job is just to get my sword through them." Sansa did not look up from the sparks she was coaxing into flame, but she could hear him pause at his work. His voice was low. "We all die sooner or later, little bird. The ones on my blade should be happy. Some do their killing slow, and I bet the men they're killing would be glad to have me come and end it with a quick knife. Believe me, little bird, there's worse things than a quick death."

He stabbed his dagger through a haunch and held it out to her.

Sansa looked at him for a moment, then rose and walked to where he was kneeling in a mound of blood and skin. She took the dagger from his hand.

"Thank you, Ser," she said. And sat down to roast her meat.

That day they stayed in the woods and only moved after they had eaten and slept again. They walked as they always did, the Hound going first with his tall stiff back in front of her, silently hacking out a path while Sansa walked behind. They had barely spoken ten sentences since heading north, it seemed.

The sun was just above the treetops when they finally broke out of a copse and looked out at a small lake. There were no huts or boats on it, just birds landing for an evening feed. There was a small beach just ahead of them, and the calm still glass of the water lapped gently on the shore. Frogs were singing in the rushes.

The Hound stopped and looked around them. "I'm tired," he said. "I'm tired and I want to rest here. We won't walk tonight. There's no one here, we're beyond the farmers now. No fire tonight. I'll be back shortly. You'll be safe here. Or is that not pleasing to you, m'lady?" he said, looking down at her, his face twisted and hard. Sansa looked up at him quickly, surprised. He never called her m'lady. He must be very angry.

"Of course, my lord." The hound grunted and walked the water's edge, disappearing behind a rocky outcrop. Sansa looked around her for a place to squat. She had been exquisitely embarrassed on this journey every time she had to tell the Hound she needed the privacy of a hedge. Still worse was that he had to stand guard nearby while they were still within striking distance of King's Landing. Here he did not seem to care what she was doing. She walked the other direction along the shoreline and pushed through the tall golden grasses towards a clump of bushes.

When she stood up again and smoothed her skirts she looked out for a moment over the lake. It was lovely, the first lovely thing she had seen in many, many weeks. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds singing their evening songs, to the calm hush of the waves. The evening air moved softly against her cheek .

Sansa sighed and opened her eyes. She turned and walked back towards the beach, but when she came around the corner of the bushes she froze.

Across the small inlet the Hound was standing in the water. His armor and gear were piled on the shore and he was naked, splashing the water over his head. The sun turned his white body pale gold, purpled here and there with healing bruises. Sansa stared at him, at his broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms as he ducked his head under and splashed the cold water over himself. She watched the drops trickling down the brown curling hair on his chest, over his hard belly, down the grooves of muscles to his thighs. She felt a flush rising up her face, but she didn't look away. She watched as he finished scrubbing at his arms, sat in the water, and let his head hang, exhausted. Suddenly Sansa realized that if he looked up he would see her standing there. Her chest began pounding, and she ducked her head and backed away around the bushes. She hunkered down as small as possible and looked west across the meadow to where the sun was finally slipping behind the hills. It took a long time for her heart to beat quietly again.

When she came back to the beach he was dressed in his armor, chewing on a cold boar leg. He looked up at her as she approached, and held out the other. She took it from him without meeting his eyes and sat on the sand beside him. As she chewed she looked at him sideways; he was staring out over the lake at the few stars that were beginning to glimmer.

"What will you do after we get to Winterfell, ser?" she asked quietly after a few moments.

The Hound chewed his meat and swallowed. "I'm not a Ser. Don't call me that."

"What should I call you then?" she asked.

He was silent for a moment. "Some call me Dog," he rasped.

"I won't call you that," she snapped. "Joffrey called you that. I'd never call you that." She felt the words of hate and anger bubbling up in her throat. "I hate…I hate that name. I hate how he used to say it. I hate how he used to say 'my lady' -" She stopped short and stared out at the water, clutching the boar leg tightly. Why couldn't she say the words, even here? Joffrey was far away, there was no one here but the Hound to hear them. Her chest heaved and she flung the meat away from her suddenly and bit her lip, her eyes blurring over. Even now her throat was too tight to speak.

Beside her the Hound was silent. He put his meat down.

"I remember the way he said it. I remember when he used to call you stupid. I remember when he had you beaten. Him and his men are far away. He's likely dead now, little bird. He's not going to hurt you ever again. Forget him."

Sansa swallowed and then sobbed as tears streamed down her cheeks. She hid her face in her hands and mewled. Finally, her cheeks hot and damp, she sniffled and drew deep breaths. And beside her on the sand she could feel the Hound, just sitting. She reached out in the darkness and found his hand, warm and calloused. She brought it to her face and pressed it to her cheek, her eyes shut tight as her last sob shuddered out of her, then let it go. After a moment he rose and walked back to the trees. Sansa huddled her cloak around her and curled up where she was, and after a few minutes, fell asleep.

She was back in the throne room at King's Landing, on her knees. Joffrey sat in front of her on the Iron Throne, one leg over the arm, sneering at her. All the courtiers and the Kingsguard stood in a ring around her, chanting and shouting and throwing dung.

"You're a stupid, traitorous whore! You'll die here! Ser Ilyn! Bring your sword!"

Ser Ilyn came forward, staring at her, unsheathing Ice from his back. His eyes glittered as he advanced on her. He opened his mouth and where his tongue had been she saw a dark dragon's head, writhing and struggling and spitting. Joffrey was standing on the throne now, screaming, his face red. "Kill her! Kill her!"

Suddenly there was a man standing in front of her, a man with bright silver armor and beautiful curling hair. "Ser Ilyn!" shouted Ser Loras, "stop or I will kill you myself!"

Ser Ilyn paused, but then kept coming. Ser Loras grabbed Ice from his hands and ran it though his open mouth, then leaped up onto the dais and with one stroke took Joffrey's head from his body. All the courtiers and soldiers shrieked and began to dissolve into silvery smoke.

Ser Loras came towards her and offered his hand. "You're all right, m'lady, you're safe now." She looked up at his face, wreathed in roses from the bushes that suddenly surrounded them. They were in the gardens of Highgarden castle. I've never been there, Sansa thought. Ser Loras took her other hand and gently laid her down on the scented mossy ground, gazing into her eyes. "You are all right, m'lady. I'm here with you now." His hand touched her cheek, and then caressed her neck, her chest, her breast and down to her belly. Now Sansa felt a painfully delicious fullness between her legs as he continued stroking her thighs. Under her silk dress her breasts felt tingles. She began gasping. "You're alright now, little bird," he said, but his face was in shadow now and the roses were crowding around them. She reached up to touch his beautiful face and ran her fingers over his pink boyish lips, but now she couldn't see him at all and she was crying out as a spike of pleasure made her feel the hard beating of blood inside her. Now all was darkness around her and she felt his hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

"Little bird, you're alright, wake up," she heard. Sansa gasped as the last pulse of her pleasure coursed through her body and reached up her hand to the dark figure above her. Her hand touched not Ser Loras, but the Hound. She felt his cheek, the bristles of his dark beard, his brow and the soft skin around his eye. She sighed and slipped her thumb over his lips, feeling his hot breath against her fingers. He jerked and then grew still. In the darkness, awake now, she held her breath and let her fingers trace down his cheek and caress his jaw, then she reached up and drew her fingertips slowly, lightly down his temple, around his ear and softly down his neck. His hand on her shoulder gripped harder but he didn't move. Sansa shrugged it off and sat up so that now she was facing him in the darkness. She could hear his breath coming quicker, raggedly in and out. Now she reached up both hands and cupped both sides of his face, the scarred and the whole. She touched the scar on one side and the skin on the other, and felt his eyes underneath her hands. His lashes fluttered against her palms as he blinked, and she heard him catch his breath.

"You, you were calling out in your sleep, I thought you were hurt," he said roughly.

"I'm not hurt," she whispered, and moved her hands down over his armor, feeling the taut muscles of his chest under the chain mail and leather. She leaned closer until she could feel his face an inch away from hers. Heat was radiating off of him and she felt warmth spreading in her own chest. "I'm alright," she whispered into his ear. Now that she was this close she could feel him shuddering as he held so still. "It's alright now," she breathed, and her lips touched his cheek.

He grabbed her hands roughly and pushed her away, but didn't let go. "Little bird," he rasped. "Little Bird." Now his voice was catching.

"Yes," she said. "Yes." She leaned towards him again, her hands caught in his.

"Go back to sleep. We're leaving in the morning," he said gruffly and rose stiffly, his armor creaking. He stood in front of her and then clanked away into the darkness. She heard him lower himself to the ground and then grow still. Sansa sat there, hugging her knees and staring out at the stars reflecting in the lake. After a long time, she lay back down.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain was splashing through the tree leaves above them and the Hound was swearing. Sansa wasn't too bothered, though; in the haze of her fever, she found it all just so _amusing. _

"Go fuck the gods to seven hells," he was muttering. Sansa stumbled a little and smiled to herself. Why did she keep falling over things? She was floating, she shouldn't be tripping on _anything_ because she actually wasn't touching the ground, so this was all really very funny.

He brought up short in front of her and she stumbled into his back and reeled. Everything was dark, everything was wet and she couldn't see for all the rain dripping into her eyes, and it was cold, even though somehow also she was so hot, she just wanted to sit down and put her face against the tree she was leaning on. "It's very easy, Ser Hound, just put your cheek on it," she whispered, but it was swallowed up in the wet drumming around them.

The Hound was looking around them, through the trees and down the hill. Suddenly he swung her up into his arms, quickly but not roughly, and started pushing down through the wet slapping branches. Sansa was trying not to slip around too much but the metal of his armor was freezing cold and so wet that she couldn't help from sliding and jostling. She began to laugh but in the same moment it turned into a sob. I'm sick, I'm sick, I want Mother, she thought. I want to go home, I shouldn't be here, I want Father and Mother and I want Lady, I want to go home. Her tears were hot but they couldn't warm her drenched face.

Suddenly there was light around her, she opened her eyes and she could see torches and firelight coming out of a window. A window! There were several low stone cottages around them, and Sansa saw that the Hound had brought her into a village. No, no, she thought, they'll catch me, they'll make me go back to Joffrey. Her hands scrabbled weakly at his arms.

The Hound banged through the inn's door with his shoulders and the pounding put Sansa's head to throbbing, but she could still hear well enough, though her eyes were clenched shut.

"What's all this then?" a woman cried, and Sansa opened her eyes a little. She saw a low room with stone walls and a low, sturdy hearth. A few wooden tables and a couple of stools. A pot on the fire that smelled incredibly good. An old woman and a young boy were staring at them from their seats near the flames.

"I need a bed and some food. I have coin," the Hound was saying. He lowered Sansa to the bench and she slipped heavily out of his arms and hit her head on the seat. Oo, that will hurt tomorrow, she giggled to herself, even as her skull began to throb.

The woman was eyeing the sword on the Hound's belt, his hacked and dented armor and the scars on his face. "Aye, we've beds aplenty, but not much food to be had around," she said. "You can have what's left of the stew but that's all there is for the night."

"That will do fine," growled the Hound. "The lady is sick. Is there a Maester in the village?"

"That there isn't, Ser," said the woman, and now she was coming closer and peering down at Sansa. She's not really old, thought Sansa, she's just a peasant. The woman sucked air in through her teeth. "She's paler than a corpse, she is. Wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't make it through the night. You sure you want to pay for the bed, Ser?"

He is no Ser, Sansa thought, he'll cut you for that, and the wicked thought made her laugh. But the laugh turned into a cough and she spasmed so helplessly that she began to slide to the floor.

"I'll pay for the damn room if I please and it's none of your business if she lives or not," he snapped. His voice was like a whip made of knives. "Now take us to the room and bring the stew and wine if you have it." He was gathering her up into his arms again and Sansa wanted to stand, but found she just couldn't make her legs move.

Now they were pushing past a low doorway and it was dark after the brightness of the fire and Sansa began pushing weakly at the Hound's chest in a panic. But then she was being set down gently on a pallet of straw and burlap, scratchy but soft, like the hay bales she used to roll on when she was little. She started to shiver, she was so wet and cold, but then she felt a heavy warmth on her and there was a cloak being tucked around her face. She grabbed at it and held tight, now she was spinning and she was hanging on to the rough fabric to keep from falling. And then she was in her mother's arms, rocking and singing softly, and she slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor stood in the dark room, looking down at her. She was sleeping, even though she looked dead. He knew that she was still alive because finally he had untucked the cloak he had placed on her and reached carefully to her neck, where he found her pulse, barely fluttering against his fingers. Now his hands were balled at his sides as he stood looking down at her.

Gods be damned, why had he taken her with him? She had been right; she probably would have been safer back at King's Landing instead of hiking through the wilderness behind him like a helpless fucking fawn. There was just so much she didn't _know_, like to tell him right away that something was wrong instead of running herself down for an entire day until she was falling over in her tracks. You're a cursed, bloody, buggering fool, he thought. You can't even take care of a girl. Better she really had been a little bird; she could fly away from him and all this and be free.

Sandor turned to the table where the old woman had left the ale. It wasn't wine and it was weak as piss, but it had a least gone some way to easing the endless pain in his head. He looked out the window in the weak light of false dawn and took another tug from the flagon. If he still had Stranger, they wouldn't be crawling over the countryside at this ant's pace. Didn't you have a horse, she had said as they left the keep. Did he get run down when we left? Did he get a spear through the belly? Oh yes, that's right, he did. Right when we were leaving the city a wild stab by the guards and your precious Stranger's guts were all over the road. And did you cry like a drunken little baby when that happened? Or did you wait till you thought she was asleep and then did you let it all out? Yes, you weak bastard, there you were, crouched in a hedgerow, there for any passing lout to hear, sobbing and gasping as quietly as you could. Your only and best friend in the world spread out in bloody little piles on the road.

Now here you are with your bird, instead. And what have you done with her. Kept her as safe as a homeless beggar could be. Shown her every day what the business of safety really is, chopping off heads and arms and rummaging through the clothes of dead men for their gold and their food. Kept her sleeping in fields and by streams like a highborn lady never should. She looks at you like you're a huge great dog who talks, who brings her dead meat and drops it at her feet and skulks away. You might as well be the Dog they call you, she's always shrunk away from you. Except –

He stopped his thoughts. He would not think about that night. He would not remember the bursting warmth that had sprung up in his belly as she had reached out and touched his face. She had been asleep and dreaming and whatever the case, she was not a whore to be taken by his great stupid hands and ravaged. He stood frozen at the window, clutching the flagon tightly and staring at nothing as the dawn slowly brightened the clouds that still drizzled down on the village.

His thoughts were broken by a sound behind him. He whirled, ready to draw steel, and saw that she was moving, pushing at the bedsheets feebly, mouth working as she tried to talk. Her eyes were half open, but sightless, rolling back. In the growing light he could see that her face was slick and shiny with sweat, with bright red spots on her cheeks.

He paused and then reached down and drew back his cloak and hers. She was soaked through with sweat and so hot he could feel it even without touching her. He hesitated a moment, then unlaced her heavy wool dress, pulling it loose and disentangling it from her arms. Her shift and her smallclothes were soaked as well but he left them clinging to her slender frame. She was so light; he could have hefted her with one hand. He pulled her legs free and placed them gently down on the bed. He didn't trust the cloudy water the woman had brought, so he held up her head and dribbled some ale into her mouth. She coughed weakly, but swallowed it.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him without seeing. "Joffrey is fighting bravely. We are safest here. Sir Ilyn will kill us," she whispered, then her eyes closed again and she grew quiet. Sandor looked down at her pale, still face in his hands. There were no bruises on it now, now that they had been gone from King's Landing for so long. Her auburn hair was dark at her temples where sweat had stained it. He smoothed it back with his fingers and tucked it behind her ears. Her lips were parted and she was breathing shallowly. He looked down at her face for a long moment; then he carefully lay her head back down on the bed and arranged the cloaks next to her hand so that she could pull them over her if she woke.

There was nothing more to do for now. If the fire inside was going to consume her, it either would or it wouldn't. Nothing he could do by hovering over her like a dithering septa. Gods be damned, he thought again, and turning, he grabbed the ale and strode angrily from the room.

Outside the inn there was a small square with a well in the middle of it. His boots splashed through the mud and the puddles, past the well and the empty blacksmith forge, past the stone cottages and the half broken pen, past the gardens overgrown with weeds and rhubarb, to the woods beyond. He held the flagon to his mouth with one hand, drew his sword with the other, and slashed and slashed and slashed at the bushes until they were nothing but shreds.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa lifted the spoon of broth to her lips. Her hand shook and the broth spilled again. At least by now it was cool and didn't burn her. She tried to steel her wrist to stop it shaking and carefully scooped the spoon into the bowl, and again lifted the broth in her wobbly hand. She _would _eat on her own, she would.

Though she swallowed the tiny spoonful weakly, it felt as if she'd overcome Stannis' entire fleet to lift it. It was five days since she had stumbled in behind the Hound; most of those days she couldn't remember. It was only last evening that she had finally awoken to setting sun pouring in through her window and the sounds of evening birds. She had hardly been able to move and her arms felt as if they weighed a dozen stone each. But she was alive.

He had not counted on her getting sick, she knew. He had kept them far away from roads and people ever since they had stopped at that lake, and his plan had been to head north to the Trident. But somehow she had taken a fever and had spent a day lurching weakly behind him before the Hound had really looked at her and realized how sick she was. She remembered his fingers gripping her chin and turning her face up to the sky; she remembered him forcing her to drink from a stream. Thank the gods for this village, she thought; close enough that he had found it, and somehow also isolated enough that war had not touched it too savagely. Although there were no men in it any more, it had not been burned or looted or even seen an army pass near it, and so there was still enough food here that the old woman was willing to sell them meals.

She laid her head back on the bed frame and breathed hard, exhausted by the effort of sitting upright, closed her eyes and listened to the sounds drifting in through the open window. Birds. A breeze in the trees. Retching. Retching?

Sansa opened her eyes and struggled as upright as she could make herself to look out onto the square.

He was next to the well, bent over and looking like someone's armor left in a heap. His head had disappeared in to the dark maw. He heaved one last time and then came up, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, shaking and spitting.

Sansa pressed her lips together and lay back down in her bed. I've been awake a whole day and he hasn't even come in to see that I'm alive. He's drunk. He's drunker than I've ever seen him.

"Your father's at it again, retching and puking, just like a boy at his first banquet," said Bethyl as she tottered into the room and set the water flagon on the bedside table.

"He's not my father. My father is dead." Sansa closed her eyes and clutched the blanket to her chin.

Bethyl looked at her with her cloudy blue eyes. "Well, father or what else he may be, he's been no use these last two days. We'll have no more ale if he keeps drinking it so." She hummed to herself and puttered around the room, pulling the bed coverings straight, picking up the empty bowl in her gnarled hands. "I'd say he's drowning his worries in his cups, eh? Stood around here for ages getting underfoot, pestering me to bring you this herb and that broth, then when the sickness really comes on, runs and grabs the nearest tankard. Big man like that, he can brave a thousand swords but a little bit of fever and he falls to pieces. Can't face what they can't fight, yes?" She cackled and hobbled out the door.

Sansa rolled the words Bethyl had said around in her mind, feeling them tumble through the grooves of her own fears. I have seen him fight and kill, I've seen him stand like a statue while horrors rage around him, I've felt his back strong and straight while he carried me...why would my fever bother him? It was me who was dying, not him. She pushed herself up on her elbow again, and looked out in to the yard. He was slumped against the well, head fallen back, asleep and snoring. Sansa pressed her lips together in a thin line, and lay back down. I will sleep, she thought. I will sleep for a whole other day if I feel like it. She closed her eyes and tried to let herself drift away. It was not long before her breathing came slow and even.

She woke with a start. It was dark in the room. She clutched at the blanket, hit her elbow on the bedframe. What was that noise? Was Joffrey come to her room to bed her finally? And then she remembered, I'm not in King's Landing, I'm in an inn somewhere in the Riverlands and I'm with the Hound. No, she corrected herself. I'm not with the Hound, he is asleep in the village somewhere, drunk.

But someone was scratching at the door; she could hear it. Soft though it was, the noise had woken her. Sansa tried to still her breathing; in the faint light from the slim moon she watched as the door jerked slightly and opened, a sliver of black growing wider and wider. She froze while cold tingles crawled down her back and then settled heavily around her legs.

The shadow of the open door grew wider and a hand, a leg and then a face came slowly into view. They had not seen her yet. Sansa felt a scream beginning in her belly but her throat would not utter a sound. All she could do was fight for her chest to rise, in a moment they would be in the room, she would be too weak to run or scream—

A great fluid streak of metal and darkness rose up from the floor beside her bed. A shriek of wood and a crash of rusted hinges broke the night in two and in that space Sansa found the breath to scream, a high thin sound, as a great gloved fist wrenched the figure in the doorway off his feet and crushed him up to the wall. In the dim light the small body struggled and writhed as Sandor Clegane's hand pinned him high up off the floor.

"And what fucking rat comes sneaking in to my room in the dead of night?" he snarled, deadly and quiet. "Did Cersei send you? Did the cunt think she could kill me that easily? Who are you?!" he roared, shaking the small figure as if it were a puppy. A piece of crockery dropped from its hand and shattered on the ground and Sansa saw all at once who it was the Hound was throttling.

"Sandor," she gasped weakly, trying to reach his leg, but it was too far. "It's the boy, it's Bethyl's boy, he's only a boy, please…" She couldn't reach him. Oh gods, he's going to kill a child in front of me, she thought. "Please, Sandor…" Her voice was a wisp of sound but it must have been loud enough. The Hound stumbled in the darkness, and the boy dropped, coughing, to the ground.

"I'm sorry m'lady, Bethyl told me to bring you fresh water, I was only bringing water…" he gasped, crawling to the door. He stumbled as he found the threshold and was gone into the darkness. The Hound swayed, and kicked the door so that it bounced off the wall, and then tripped and fell in an armored heap at the end of the bed. She could hear him breathing hard.

Slowly she relaxed her hands and uncurled her fingers stiffly. Her chest slowed its pounding and she waited for the Hound to move. Was he alright, she wondered? Had he somehow been hurt? He was not moving, but she could still hear him, his breaths hitching now with a high moaning sound. Slowly, fearfully, she crawled down the bed to the foot and reached out a shaking hand. Jonquil never had to do this, she thought suddenly.

And it was no Florian she found either. In the darkness the first thing she touched was his hair; his great dark head was bowed down on the coverlet as if it were an altar. But if he was praying it was to no god she knew; she could hear him whispering now, but she could barely understand him.

"Sandor?" she whispered softly. His head rolled under her fingers and he was laughing.

"…a little boy, ha! The great Dog fights a pup, the mighty Hound… can't even kill a child properly…gods won't they all laugh…" His tangled armor rattled as he shifted and slipped sideways, his legs spilled out beside the bed.

"You're drunk." Sansa knew it was both true and useless to say so. He probably had not even heard her.

She was wrong. His head rose suddenly and even in that faint light she could see his eyes burning.

"Aye, I'm fucking well drunk as I can be, little bird. Even with this weak piss for ale. What comes of traipsing about the countryside for weeks on end with nothing but a little bird for company and not a drop in sight." He paused, and Sansa waited, wondering if he would keep talking or fall asleep. He was looking at her, she could see that his eyes were fixed on her. "You…" He stopped, and swallowed. "I am… I am very drunk, my lady. But not so drunk I can't kill anyone who comes in here." He laughed and his head fell to the bed again.

"You very nearly did," she whispered. She couldn't say why she was whispering, the gods knew who she would wake. "You almost killed that boy who lives with Beryl. I don't even know his name. He must be no more than ten and you very nearly strangled him." She was angry now, and shaking. "They saved my life, and you almost killed him."

The hand that flashed out to grab her arm was so fast that she did not even see it move before her wrist was squeezed painfully tight. "It was me that saved your fucking life, little bird. _Me_. And no thanks from you either. All the same with ladies. Mouthing pretty words but never speaking the truth…the _truth_..." He shoved her hand away. "Go sing your songs."

Sansa held herself still. It was true. Never once had she thanked him for taking her away. Even if he was drunk and rude and dangerous, she was still a lady.

"Sandor." The sound of his name brought his head around again. Now his face was in shadow but she knew he was listening. "Sandor," she said again, not sure now exactly what to say. "I'm—I'm very glad you took me with you. I thank you," she finished simply. The words seemed small and flat.

He didn't move. And then he bowed his head down to the bed and she heard him laughing again, but it was not laughter somehow either.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice small and unsure.

His laughing stopped and he was still. "Say my name again, little bird. It sounds so sweet when a little bird sings it." She could hear the roughness in his voice, but it was strangely gentle too.

She felt shy to say it now. He was so big, even when he was slumped over the bed. It seemed odd that this huge man in front of her had such a soft whisper of a name. The word felt strange in her mouth, as if it were a forbidden spell. "Your name is…is Sandor."

"Aye," he said, and sighed, and reached his arms around her knees and bowed his head. In a moment she heard him breathing deeply and she realized that he had fallen asleep. She reached out again and found his head, and stroked his hair as he snored quietly.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then she carefully lowered herself back down to the bed and let herself sleep as well.


	5. Chapter 5

Mail. Boots. Greaves. Gauntlets. Belt. Scabbard. Sandor went through the familiar ritual of donning his armor. Cleaned and polished now that Bethyl had had a go at it, eager for any service she could do in exchange for gold. He would have to ask the boy come and help him finish the straps; he still didn't know his name. Didn't help that the boy was scared shitless of him and wouldn't say two words together when he was around him.

The courtyard of the inn was empty but Sandor could hear laughter and shouts. He rounded the corner of the square and there they were; the boy was tilting at a straw bale with a stick, and Sansa and Bethyl were watching and crying out words of encouragement to him between peals of laughter. Sandor watched for a moment.

"You're swinging too wide. You'd be cut down in a second if that thing had arms."

The boy whirled around and dropped his stick. His mouth opened but he only stood there, gaping at the huge Hound. Beryl peered at him and Sansa had the same wide-eyed look. Bloody balls, thought Sandor.

"Stop staring at me boy. You want to be a fighter, you can start by coming here and helping me with my armor. You're not too frightened to tighten a strap, are you?" Still no words, but the boy was quick enough to run to him and busily grab on to his leathers, even the ones he was only just tall enough to reach.

"Are you leaving?" Sansa sounded afraid; she was on her feet and pulling her shawl around her shoulders. Still so frighteningly thin.

"We've got to eat, little bird. I saw deer on the hills this morning, and even you must be getting sick of parsnip soup."

She smiled wide and stepped closer to him. "Oh yes," she said. "Oh, I would love a venison roast. Bethyl could cook it with onions." Her cheeks flushed pinkly, her eyes were alive. What a light she shines with, he thought. For food. For what you can bring her. He looked away and tested the work that the boy had finished, feeling the tightness of his straps against the swing of his shoulders.

"I'll be gone a few hours. Don't go getting lost."

"I'll be here. You- you will come back, won't you?" she said in a rush and put her hand on his arm. He looked into her face, where her fear was plain to see.

I am your Dog, he thought. I would come back to you every day no matter how far I had roamed. I would see you safely asleep and lay at the foot of your bed every night to keep you from harm. I would kill anyone who offered you danger and I would cut off my arm if it meant it would keep you alive. I would walk by your side for the rest of my life to hear you say my name. I am your Hound, your shield. I am yours.

She was waiting for her answer. "Aye, little bird, I'll come back. See you've got a fire ready." She nodded.

"I remember how," she said. She took back her hand and wrapped her shawl tighter. He turned and strode off, following the track out of the village.

The deer was alert. It lifted its head from grazing and sniffed the wind, swiveling its long graceful neck. It was apart from any herd. This ridge was covered with new soft clover, and it had been too tempting to resist.

It heard the softest of clicks and turned again, ears up and brown eyes wide, ready to run. In the last second before it coiled its haunches to spring away, there was a whisper and a thrum and sharp hot death was in its neck. It dropped heavily, the knife jutting out just below its jaw.

Sandor crawled out of the scrub he'd been hiding in and pulled his knife from the beast's neck. Bloody difficult, this hunting with no bow. He made a larger slit through the throat and held the deer's head to bleed it out. It was a beautiful beast, young and strong. The reddish brown of its fur under his hand was lovely, he thought. Almost as red as…. Suddenly it was too close. Imagine her neck if she were still in the Red Keep. Stretched out on some bed with Joffrey's hand clenched around it. Bowed over the steps of Baelor like her father's was. Sandor kept no gods, said no prayers, but as he knelt there in the forest he sent a wordless desperate thanks up to – who? The old gods? The trees? You are a fool, he thought, a lucky fool. Lucky she believed in you enough to go with you. Lucky that your sword is still sharp. He looked down at the beast in his hands. We are lucky that we will be eating tonight, that is all. He set to gutting the deer.

The meat was slung over his shoulders in a bundle when he came out of the woods in the late afternoon sun. The village lay ahead, the fields between bursting with grain and no one here to harvest it. He stopped suddenly. Was that a horse neighing? He strained to listen but could hear nothing more. All the same he sped up, his boots cutting deep marks in the grass. There was no sound from the village, no one in the gardens. He reached the path and his boots hit sparks off the stones. As reached the first buildings he strained to see the inn.

But it was not the inn where he found her. She was lying against the well, one side of her forehead open in a bloody gash. She was still, lifeless. The boy crouched next to her, sobbing and holding her hand.

"Bethyl, Bethyl, please, wake up," he cried. His tears dropped down on the old woman's sleeve.

Sandor dropped the meat heavily and spun around, looking down the other paths. He saw the dark hoofprints crisscrossing the breadth of the square, the stain of blood in the dirt. Then he fell to his knees in front of the boy. "She's dead, boy, she's not asleep! Listen to me! LISTEN to me!" He ripped his hand's away from the corpse's, grabbed his face and forced him to look. "Where did they go? Where is the lady? TELL ME!" he roared in the boy's face.

The boy sniffled and swallowed. He tried to speak clearly but the sobs came through all the same.

"Some men came into the village on horses," he said. "They were shouting and they had swords. The saw the young lady and the-they were riding around her and trying to grab her and l-laughing and then Bethyl tried to stop them and one of them hit her with his sword and she fell down…they took the lady with them, and I couldn't – I didn't know what to do…" He could not go on.

Sandor dropped the boy and looked down the path where the tracks led away. No horses, no sound. They were gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Warning: This is a very violent chapter. Avoid if you are sensitive.**_

_**I own nothing.**_

Sansa crouched in the dark room and listened as well as she could to the noises outside. The bearded one was taking his turn with the other girl; she could hear her cries, weaker now than they had been an hour ago. Sansa did not know whether to be glad of this or not. She could block them out more easily, but it also meant that the girl was wearing out and then they would cast the thin body onto the pile and come for her.

Her hands were not bound anymore but they were useless rags that fluttered on the ends of her arms with barely any feeling. They had been tied so tightly for a day and a night that when the man cut the cord she did not even feel the nick his dagger made in her wrist. It had stopped bleeding but she felt weak and heavy, as if a coat of mail had been laid over her body and she could not shrug it off. She turned her head now, away from the thin line of light that showed under the heavy wooden door and looked into the blackness of the room. It stank of piss and blood but the wall was cool on her cheek.

When she had first been thrust into the room there had been three other girls sitting on the floor. She had barely been able to see them in the half-light. One had been weeping unceasingly; one sat silently; the other had begun to whisper frantically in Sansa's ear the moment she had sat down, urging her to pray to the mother, babbling, a torrent of prayer, a fountain of words detailing the seven hells they would surely fall into if their prayers were not fervent enough. When Sansa remained silent the girl jabbed her ribs and hissed at her until the door crashed open and she began crying out, shrieking curses and gabbling in her throat as the soldier, the shorter one, grabbed her by the hair. "Shut your hole, you cunt," he sneered and smashed her across the face before he pulled her through the door and slammed it shut, leaving Sansa and the other two in darkness again.

The crying one had been next and though she had never learned the silent girl's name, they had found each other's hands in the blackness and clutched them tightly through the long night while they heard the other girl used and killed and kicked away. There had been hours of silence then, and Sansa had wondered if the soldiers had left, but the morning brought them again, and the girl with dark hair whose name she did not know was pulled away. She did not know how long she had been alone, but she thought now that she wouldn't be in that room for very much longer.

But it took longer than she thought for her turn. When finally the bearded one came the light was brilliant and blinded her. She lifted her hands to shield her eyes and heard laughter.

"On your feet, wench."

He grabbed her braid and dragged her roughly into the great room of the keep. The afternoon sun shone through the door and the broken window. The shorter soldier was snoring, bent over the tiny body on the trestle table. He was naked from the waist down and spittle from his mouth pooled on the dark haired girl's temple. Her eyes were wide and still and staring and her face was blue; there was a chain around her neck and her naked body was covered in cuts and welts.

A calloused hand wrenched her face around. "Don't need to be starin now, leave little Kynnath to his fun. And don't worry about that little slut, it's me you got to worry about pleasin now, right?" The bearded soldier smiled and his face twisted around the few teeth in his mouth. He was taller than she was and his breath was foul, full of wine and rot. Sansa saw the dull red and gold on his armor.

"My- my lord," she stammered, "I am a Lannister, your masters would pay handsomely –"

Her face stung as his fist cracked across her cheek. "Shut your mouth. I piss on the Lannisters, every bleedin' one of 'em. You think I'd be out here if we were still fightin for our 'masters'?" He spat and she felt it hit her shoulder. "But you can keep calling me 'lord', I like the sound of that from your pretty little face. Think you can still say it if your mouth is full?- " and then he twisted away from her and vomited. She saw the pile of empty flagons by the table. He's drunk, maybe he is so drunk I could push him away and run – but he was up again and shoving her over to the wall. She stumbled and bit her tongue and gasped. She started to cry now, she could hear her voice making a high animal sound as he began to rip away her dress. Oh mother, she thought, I can't stop him, I can't stop it –

The light in the room dimmed. She heard the _chink_ of a metal-clad footstep and the ring of steel coming out of a scabbard.

"Anything left for me, friend?" a deep voice rasped.

Sansa looked back over her shoulder enough to see Bearded One looking at the door. "Go bugger yourself, we caught them, we'll fuck them," he said, but his hand left Sansa's neck and went to his sword. "Seven hells," he spat suddenly and turned away from her, "it's the fucking Hound."

Sansa held tightly to the bodice of her dress and turned to look at the doorway. He was walking across the hall holding his sword out almost lazily, and smiling at the bearded soldier, who began to back towards the hearth. "What the fuck are you doin' out here, Clegane?"

"Deserting, same as you," he grinned, and then he reached Bearded One and raised his sword and brought it down, and Bearded One slid away from himself, one part with his head and his sword, one part with his guts and his legs. He made no sound as he collapsed to the floor.

"Hey, wha- what you doin?" The Hound turned towards Short One, who was standing now, weaving and blinking with his manhood dangling absurdly. "What'd you do to Whitlock?"

The Hound didn't bother to answer him but closed the short distance and ran his sword through the man's bare belly, then twisted it and brought it back out with a ropey tangle of intestines wrapped around it. Short One's eyes bugged from his face as he looked down at his stomach and screamed. He grabbed at his guts and made as if to pull them back in, but the Hound pulled his sword free and then sank it into his chest and the man dropped.

Sansa heard herself breathing raggedly. She tore her eyes away from the spreading pool of blood and looked at the Hound. He strode to the window now and looked out, then back at her. She stood frozen.

"Are there any others?" he barked.

She thought, but her mind was slow. "I don't – I don't think so, there were only these two who brought me and I couldn't hear very well from the room, I t–tried – to -" and then she couldn't breathe. She was keening again and her chest wouldn't work properly, she couldn't get her breath. She stared at him and tried to speak but only quick little whimpers would come. He strode to her and grasped both her shoulders and she knew then that it was real.

"It's alright, Little Bird. It's alright," he said, and held her as she sobbed.

_Author's note: So sorry that there was **such** a long gap and then the first chapter back is so graphic. I don't like to glorify violence; I've always liked the GRRM doesn't shy away from showing just how brutal war can be. But sorry for the brutality all the same. _

_Thanks to all who followed and reviewed in the long wait._


	7. Chapter 7

Outside the ruined keep they found the soldiers' horses grazing, not even tied up. Sansa was still gasping and crying but he wanted to get her out of there before anyone else might come back. He knew he would be glad to kill anyone like the dead soldiers inside, but he didn't think she could stand to see it.

He chose the larger mount, a dark brown gelding with a white blaze down its nose. He tried to lift Sansa up into the saddle but she saw the Lannister crest emblazoned there and began to fight and kick. He had to hold her and shush her for many minutes before she calmed again. She began to cry wildly when he tried to lift her again, and eventually he had to throw his cloak over the saddle so she wouldn't have to look at it. Once she was up he caught the smaller mount and looked through the saddlebags; a few stags, a few dragons, a few trifling necklaces and a handkerchief soaked with old blood. He took the coin and the jewelry and the extra dagger he found strapped in by the pommel, and went back to their new horse. Sansa was sitting quietly, but so very pale. She was staring at the doorway of the keep, but looked down at him as he walked up to her. He put his hand on her leg and patted it awkwardly.

"You're alright Little Bird. Let's go."

She nodded and he swung up behind her in the saddle. It was not quite as large as his own had been on Stranger, and he had to hold her in close as he gathered the reins and kicked his heels into the horse's flanks. They set off down the shaded lane that led to the keep.

A long time passed before she stirred. They were passing a field on one side and a small river on the other.

"How did you find me?"

He looked down at the top of her head. She stared straight ahead and her voice was quiet enough that he almost hadn't heard her.

"Those bloody fools and their horses left their tracks. I ran after them," he said. It had been a long run, him praying the whole way that the weather would not turn to rain and erase the trail that had been left for him. "I ran until I found you," he finished.

"Stop," she said.

He reigned in the big horse and she twisted around in the saddle to look up at him. He stared back at her. Her mouth twisted for a second, but she took a deep breath and stilled herself again. He looked and saw how her cheek was bruised, how the dirt made marks at her temple, at the cut in her lip. He saw her eyes looking at him, seeing him so clearly.

"I'm very glad you found me," she said in a soft voice, and her eyes filled up and overflowed, though she stayed still. "I'm very glad I'm with you, " she spoke again and her voice shook slightly. She reached up and touched his face. "I don't care how many people you have killed. I don't care what you have done. Do you understand? I am thankful to be with you."

She looked at him for a moment longer, then dropped her hand and turned back around. He could feel how deeply she was breathing, how she gulped down a sob but sat still and tall. He said nothing, but prodded the horse to begin walking, slower than before so that she would not be jostled so badly. He shifted the reins to his right arm and wrapped the other down over her shoulder and around her waist. They rode like that down the long green lane, under the green canopy lit with evening sun above them.

They stopped some hours later at the village and looked for the boy, but he was gone. That, or hiding, Sandor thought bitterly as he came stomping back from the outlying buildings. "He's not here, Sansa," he said curtly. "We must go. If those soldiers know about this village, so will others, and we must be gone before any else comes." He almost made a cruel jest about killing them but bit it back.

Sansa nodded and looked around the square. After crying by Bethyl's body, she had listened to him quietly and then hid in the inn as he bid her while he scouted around the village. When she had come out she had a sack filled with clothes and food, and she wore a worn pair of boots on her feet. Bethyl's, he supposed. He glanced over at the well where she was still lying. They didn't have bloody _time_ to bury the body, but that didn't stop the Little Bird from looking wretchedly at her and then at him. He turned away and swallowed a lump of futile rage in his throat.

Now they were making blessedly faster time across the countryside. They left the village and crossed the ridge where Sandor had slain the deer, and beyond it they went down into land that was hilly and had no farms. They saw no one now but still he insisted that they not light a fire. The sun set earlier, it seemed, and so there was a long time between nightfall and the time when they finally fell into a thin sleep. In that time they always sat together now. She had said nothing but from the first night after the village she always found his body as darkness crept round them, and sat curled next to him, their heads leaned back as they watched the stars appear above them. It was quiet in those long hours, and out of that long stillness her questions would come to him.

"What is winter like?"

"It's fucking cold."

"I _know_ that. But what is it like? I don't remember it."

"It's …it's more snow than you would ever think. My second winter the banks were taller than the stable and we had to dig out the horses. Your balls are like to freeze off, it's so cold."

"Does the sun really go away?"

"You still see it, but not much. The nights are very long."

"And what do you do?"

"Bugger me, girl, what do you mean?"

"I mean what do you do when you can't go outside?"

"Go fucking mad, that's what you do."

Or,

"And then that one is the left point on the King's Crown."

"I see it."

"But Father said the Wildlings still call it the Cradle, because that's what the First Men called it. Mother said the baby that came with a cradle that big must have made the Fingers."

"So a King's Crown, or a shit bucket. Same thing, really."

Sansa laughed loudly at that. Sandor grinned in the darkness. They had not spoken of Joffrey since that night at the lake. He looked over her profile in the faint light from the stars as she laughed, her face turned up to the night.

They slept that night rolled up under their cloaks, his back to a fallen tree and her curled to his belly. That, too, had not been spoken of. She simply crawled into his arms and curled up there like one of Cersei's cats.

He awoke in the night and felt his arms cold and her sitting up beside him, looking up at the moon that was riding high between the clouds above. He reached for her arm.

"Little Bird, it's cold. Sleep."

"The Dothraki believe the stars are their dead ancestors, the greater the warrior the brighter the star."

He rubbed his eyes. Sometimes she was like this, she would be thinking of something for hours and then speak of it as if he'd been talking to her all along.

"The greater the warrior the greater his weariness, Bird. Lie down and let me sleep again."

"I think my father wouldn't have a very bright star. He could fight well but he always avoided it if he could. He said you didn't need steel to prove your honor."

Sandor pulled himself up so he could see her face. The moonlight was bright and he could see the tracks of wetness down her cheeks.

"Do you know, it was I who told the queen that my father wanted to leave King's Landing, to take us away from there. I thought I would tell her and she would stop it, and then we could stay…I never thought about what would happen. I wouldn't have said anything if I knew-" She bit her lip.

"Sansa," he said, and he saw her turn and look at him. "Varys would have told the queen in any case. Nothing went on in that castle that that damn eunuch did not know. He would have trotted his painted bag of a body to Cersei and told her all himself if you had not. He probably knew that you were on your way there and fucking let you do it for him. But you did not kill your father. Joffrey did that."

"But if I hadn't have begged for him he would not have confessed to being a traitor, he would not have lied and forsaken his honor like that. I made him do that." She began to cry in bitter, wrenching sobs.

He did not know what to do; as always when she cried, he felt huge and useless. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Sansa. Don't."

She turned and leaned into his shoulder. She did not stop crying but her sobs eased and became quiet. After a while she turned her head and looked up at the moon. Her head still rested on his shoulder.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, "look at it." But she turned to look up at him instead. The silver light lay along her temple, her cheek, her eye. Her hair was mussed and he reached up, smoothed it from her temple and tucked it behind her ear.

"Little Bird, " he began, but she spoke first.

"We should get some sleep. I know. So sleep." She looked at him for a moment longer, and then turned away and lay down on the ground. He looked down at her and then lay down himself, gathering her into his arms. The moon rode high above them.


End file.
